


A Time for Healing

by happilyinsane13



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: 21st Century AU, AU, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, But I like the actors from the movies, Caspian and Lucy are both adults, Caspian gets his first tattoo, Caspian is 28, F/M, Love the books, Lucy is a tattoo artist, Lucy is like 23, so imagine that, so it's fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27170426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happilyinsane13/pseuds/happilyinsane13
Summary: “You are not the scar, Caspian,” his foster father, Cornelius, had said. “You are so much more and greater than that.”Caspian knew that… he did. But how could you ignore such a visible, putrid, sign of hate on your own body?~Caspian goes to a tattoo shop to get a coverup for his scar. Lucy is his tattoo artist.
Relationships: Caspian/Lucy Pevensie
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45





	A Time for Healing

**Author's Note:**

> This has not been beta'd. So I'm sorry. This is something I just... needed to write. I feel like there should be more AU's in this fandom. Also, just like... 21st century Lucy would be a tattoo artist or in the medical field. Tattoos are works of art that can help cover scars that are painful, in a way, it's like her cordial.

Caspian looks in the mirror, staring at the puckered star that stretches across his right chest between his shoulder and above his breast bone. He hated it, the way rose and scratched against a shirt whenever he pulled one over his head. How he looked around the beach nervously, hesitating to take off his shirt. 

Caspian wasn’t dumb, he knew he was tall, well built, and handsome. But he wasn’t vain either. He didn’t hate the stares he got (although he hated seeing it whenever he glanced at his reflection). He hated the  _ questions _ .

_ Oh my god, what happened to you? _

_ Was it an accident? _

_ How did it happen? _

_ What did that to you? _

Caspian scowled, hurriedly pulling his long sleeve shirt on and pulling a navy beanie over his head. It wasn’t a what… it had been a who.

“You are not the scar, Caspian,” his foster father, Cornelius, had said. “You are so much more and greater than that.”

Caspian knew that… he did. But how could you ignore such a visible, putrid, sign of hate on your own body?

Well, that was changing, and it was changing today. 

Caspian rubbed his chin, his palms scratching against his beard. He slapped his cheek once for courage and marched out of his bathroom, grabbed his wallet, phone, and keys and marched out the door. The journey from the apartment building lift to the sidewalk below into the cool, wet, autumn air felt like eons. Caspian’s hands were shaking so he thrust them in his jeans pocket to keep them steady. The wet pavement squeaked against his boots as he began his journey of six blocks. He could’ve taken the underground but he wanted to feel the cool air enter and fill his lungs, a slight burn in his legs, and the wind start to chap his cheeks. 

Soon he stood in front of the “Spare ‘Oom Tattoo Shop.”

He hadn’t been in before although he had passed by it several times between the local pub and work. When he had finally come to a decision on what he wanted to do about his scar, he did his research. He stalked the tattoo shop’s website and Instagram, browsing the digital artist portfolios. He had considered other shops as well but it all came down to the artist in this shop near his home. She happened to specialize in cover-ups of old tattoos and scar tissue. Shooting her a quick DM led to making an appointment for a consultation before he knew what was happening. 

Caspian took one last deep breath of the crisp, cool air before pushing the glass door. He heard the shop bell ring and a short, stout man with a long beard and bald head glanced up with him from the counter. His hands and neck were covered in black ink. He was wearing a sweater but Caspian had a fair hunch there was much more underneath. His eyes narrowed and Caspian almost gulped (almost). 

“Walk in?” he grumbled. 

“Uh, no, actually, I have a consultation with-”

“Trumpkin! You better not be scaring my customers!

Caspian looked up to see a young woman. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders and she was short and lithe with a roundness to her face that suggested more innocence than a tattoo artist would be expected to have. She was wearing a long, dark green cardigan and a blush pink tank top with jeans. Caspian could see tattoos peeping out from the top of her tank top over her chest. He could just make out the inked rendition of a cherry tree in full bloom. It almost seemed to dance across the right side of her chest. 

“Lucy?” Caspian asked, almost tentatively. 

“Yes! And you must be Caspian!” 

Lucy bounced over brightly, sticking a hand out for a shake. He responded and he noticed that despite her stature she had a firm grip. It was comforting, considering she would have to grip pulsing needles over his chest. 

  
“Come over to my station,” Lucy invited, grinning winningly at Caspian. “Don’t mind Trumpkin, I promise he’s secretly sweet.”

“Don’t go spreading that around missy,” Trumpkin grumbled, shuffling over to the laptop behind the counter. “Trufflehunter might hear ya.”

Lucy giggled as she led an open mouth Caspian to the back corner. She had set up her station behind two small walls, not much taller than Caspian’s waist. She had decorated it with framed art pieces he assumed were her own. They were mostly mystical landscapes across the seasons. A lamppost in a deserted winter forest, a set of ruins on a cliff side by the ocean, and a broken stone table at twilight in the middle of a vast field. Her table was neat and tidy, with ink set up according to color. There was one framed photo of Lucy with two young men and another young woman, embracing and smiling. 

“So,” Lucy started, sitting down in a chair and gesturing for Caspian to sit across from her in the client’s chair. “You mentioned a cover up of a scar. May I see it?”

Caspian had a moment’s hesitation that he prayed Lucy did not perceive before peelings off his shirt. His shirt now crumpled in his hands he began to twist and turn the fabric nervously as Lucy bent in, her eyes flickering over every ridge, rise, and crevice to his scar. 

“I can see it’s not too old,” she remarked, tentatively reaching a finger out to trace the edge. Caspian sucked in a little breath at her touch. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s alright,” Caspian tried not to shift in his seat as Lucy started to trace outlines on his skin, as if imagining all of the shapes and colors that were possible to paint across his flesh. “Do you think the idea I gave you is possible?”

Lucy hummed pleasantly. 

“Definitely possible. We will want to work with the scar, place the ship just right, the star overhead,” she glanced up at him inquisitively, “It will be rather large and I can’t lie, tattooing over scars hurts.”

“Don’t all tattoos hurt?” Capian joked lightly. 

“Yes,” Lucy grinned. “More than usual, though.”

“And price?”

Lucy hummed again. She looked up into his face so that their eyes locked and Caspian could not help but be pulled in. Lucy’s eyes weren’t mysterious or tempting; they were just… kind. Full of a faith and belief in something Caspian couldn’t describe. He realized, suddenly with an almost painful jolt, that she trusted him. 

“We’ll keep it as discussed in the messages.”

Lucy stood up and stretched, raising her arms above her head and closing her eyes in pleasure as she bent her back. Lucy then removed her cardigan and tossed it onto her chair, her brows set in determination. Caspian saw that her arms were close to being a full sleeve. She had a dancing fawn on her left forearm, a red scarf wound around its neck. Further down the upside of that arm looked like a mermaid, splashing in and out of dancing waves. On her right forearm was the visage of a lion, looking out proudly. The lion in particular was incredibly colorful and lifelike, as if it functioned as Lucy’s protector. 

“I already have a few sketches. Let me fine tune them and I’ll ask what you like. From there we’ll size it up and I’ll make the stencil,” Lucy said. “That might take me 45 minutes to an hour. If you’re willing to wait, I have an open spot today. It’s been a slow week.” 

Lucy smiled at him again and Caspian felt that even if he had had plans today he would have cancelled them all for her. 

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Lucy was positively beaming now and she jumped up and clapped her hands with excitement. 

“Oh, Caspian, I’m really excited about this one! You can stay right here is you’re comfortable or there’s a coffee shop down the road.”

Lucy spun on her heel in her tiny workspace and with a flourish pulled out a tablet to fine tune and complete her sketches. Caspian sat there, speechless for a second, completely unsure of his next move. After wrestling with himself for a full minute he decided he wasn’t ready to pass by Trumpkin’s desk again yet, and so he sat there, staring at Lucy’s back. It was silent for a few minutes, Lucy biting her lip and scrunching her nose as she continued to add and subtract pieces of her sketch. Caspian sat a little dumbly, realizing he hadn’t put his shirt back on and wondering if it was now too late. 

“Caspian,” Lucy looked up from her tablet to eye him pensively. “This ship, which I love by the way, but what does it represent to you?”

Caspian started and started at Lucy. 

The questions…

In a way he knew what she was really asking. Not just what the ship meant but what the scar itself meant. 

“A me that’s, I mean,” he swallowed and tried again. “Someone that is stronger, free, and not the kid who was such a burden that…”

Caspian’s throat constricted and he gripped his shirt in his hands more violently, twisting and turning it between his hands. How do you tell someone that your own uncle stabbed you because they did not want you in their home the minute their nephew was born? How does one explain that your only living family member convinces not only the police, but even yourself, that it was done in self-defense? How do you tell a kindhearted woman that you were gaslighted into thinking you were the scum of the earth, until you finally found a foster father who convinced you of your worth? Caspian does not try. He just looks at his feet. 

Lucy nodded sympathetically.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said softly. Lucy held up her tablet screen for his inspection. “It’s a beautiful ship, representative of the man you are. I truly believe that.”

Caspain glanced at the drawing and, momentarily, let the air leave his lungs. 

Lucy is right. It’s a beautiful ship, brown, green, and red with a regal dragon head leading the way. It visibly seems to rock upon the deep blue waves of a foreign sea, and the night sky above is adorned with the brightest star. Caspian admired the painting-like quality of the drawing and wondered if Lucy could truly capture brush strokes through needles. 

“It looks perfect,” he whispered. 

“I’m glad. Let’s print out a few stencils, size you up, get the placement right, and get going.”

She winked before turning around and Caspian could not help but press a fist against his chest when his heart skipped a beat. 

30 minutes later Caspian is laying down on the table. Lucy has donned gloves, carefully shaved down any hair on around his scar, and is poised with her flat needles, prepared to start the line work. 

“Alright, Caspian. Take a deep breath for me, if you need a break to stretch or anything let me know. If you need to talk then talk. If you need to shift, let me know so I can pause and not mess up the tattoo.”

Caspian nodded affirmatively and took a deep breath. Lucy nodded in return, placed a gloved hand on his chest and another poised above his scar with the tattoo gun, the buzzing started, his heart rate picked up, and she lowered the needles to begin. 

At first Caspian is taken aback. He’s not sure what to think. At times the pain is merely annoying like sandpaper but then the needle will hit over his scar and it’s like a cat has taken its claws and swiped at him repeatedly in the same place. It’s hot and painful and yet somehow… somehow… it’s like white noise playing across his skin. He can’t ignore it but his mind drifts and works all the same. He decides in the first 10 minutes, he’s not a client who can handle silences. So, Caspian begins to talk. 

“How long have you been tattooing?” 

The minute the question leaves his mouth Caspian’s face flushes and he feels lame for even asking. She must get the question all the time. 

“Oh, two years now?” Lucy lifted the needle to dip it once again in black ink before starting a new line. “I started it to pay for my last year in university. My parents stopped paying, you see. I was going to be a nurse but,” she shrugged, “I finished uni and decided I didn’t want to stop tattooing.”

Caspian narrowed his eyebrows. 

“Your parents stopped paying for uni?”

“Yes, after I got my first tattoo. They had always said if any of us ever got one, they were done helping us.”

“That seems unfair!”

Lucy looked pensive for a moment before continuing. 

“Yes, I mean, I can still go home for holidays and such. I’m not kicked out of the family. But they stopped supporting me financially.”

Capian’s face was getting hot again but this time it wasn’t embarrassment or pain. It was indignation on behalf of Lucy. 

“It’s just a tattoo! What does that prove about a person’s worth or whether they deserve to be taken care of?”

Lucy looks into his eyes for a moment, her expression one of melancholy and something even more heartbreaking… acceptance. 

“I made my decision. The lion on my arm protects me, it’s a piece of living art. I don’t regret it. My older siblings sneak me money, from time to time. I’m loath to take it but it’s always in the form of a new toaster, groceries, or clothes. They worry themselves to death over it.”

“Did any of them speak up for you when your parents cut you off?”

Lucy wipes excess ink away from his chest, firm but gentle. 

“Peter and Edmund were very vocal at first. Susan will not speak to them directly. She’s more subtle. She immediately came to my flight and stayed with me for a week to help me get things sorted. That was her stand.”

Lucy blew a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“I have been very lucky in my life, with siblings and friends,” she remarks. 

“I think they’re the lucky ones,” Caspian replies and both he and Lucy are taken aback by the sheer honesty in his voice. 

For the 6 hours it took to finish the tattoo (Caspian insists he can sit through one sitting and Lucy jokes that men usually are wimpier than women) they switch between comfortable silence and chatting. The stories from childhood, both joyous and horrific, flowed like water. Caspian told her the few memories he had of his father, he truly remembered nothing about his mother, and when he ran out of those he told her of Cornelius. Lucy regaled stories from when she was young and she played make believe, how her oldest brother Peter would indulge her, and how, she had to admit, for the longest time she truly thought her make believe in the little garden behind her house was real. That she was a valiant queen, protecting her small but beautiful domain. 

“And one day my brother Edmund, this was before he became anything close to resembling nice, called me a liar and childish in front of everybody. I mean, yes I was a child, but when you’re a child, you don’t understand how that can be bad, you know?” She dipped her magnum needles into the deep green that was filling the dragon’s head. Caspian tried not to wince as she touched it to his skin. She glanced up at him apologetically. “I ran off. In the middle of the night! I thought I’d show him. Show them all I wasn’t making things up. And as I was running down the street I got lost. I ended up in the meadows beyond our suburb. It was winter too, snow on the ground, and I only had a nightgown and robe on. And suddenly, I thought, something otherworldly jumped in front of me. And I thought, for the wildest moment, it was a faun like from my adventures in the garden.”

Caspian couldn’t help but smile at her through the pain. His skin was raw and red and he was bleeding a little, but Lucy’s stories were distracting him. 

“Who was this faun?”

“Mr. Tumnus,” Lucy’s face, if possible, became even more relaxed and joyous in its appearance. Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks bloomed red from happiness. “He lived in a cottage not too far away. He found me and brought me home. He’s actually a professor, here in town. It might have influenced the university I chose.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Oh yes! And he barely looks a year older.”

Time was spent amicably like this until Lucy was carefully wiping down his chest and cleaning it up. 

“Take a look in the mirror.”

Caspian did as she bade, getting up gingerly to stand in front of the mirror in the corner of her station. When he saw the blazing image on his chest he felt his lungs constrict and his eyes water. There, on his chest where the horrid scar had been, was the beautiful night sky upon blue waters. The ships had covered and even blended in with the scar, now looking like seamless woodwork in the ship. The dragon’s head in the front blazed a trail of adventure and sought new horizons and, finally, Caspian felt like he could do that too. 

“Thank you.” 

It came out as barely more than a whisper, but even if Lucy had not heard him his tears tracing a path down his cheeks and falling into his beard made it more than clear. 

Without saying a word, Lucy began to wrap his chest in saran wrap and instructed him on how to take care of the tattoo until it healed completely. Caspian could only nod for a while as he very slowly and carefully pulled his shirt back on. He was going to be sore for days but it was well worth it. 

When they arrived at the front of the shop for Caspian to pay, Lucy was relaying the charges to Trumpkin at the register. The tinkling of the shop bell made all of their heads shoot up to see an older, tall, lithe man with brown hair with streaks of grey and spectacles perched upon his nose. He was carrying a bag of takeaway by the smell of it and a cup of coffee. 

“Mr. Tumnus!” 

Lucy hurried around the counter to embrace the man and a chuckle emerged from his chest, hearty and warm. 

“I’ve come with dinner, Lucy. It’s a late night, yes? You really must remember to feed yourself, Your siblings would be quite cross with me if I let you starve.”

Lucy released Mr. Tumnus and ushered him to the back to set down the food, signaling to Caspian with a smile and a wave that she would be back in a minute. 

Trumpkin shook his head when Capian made eye contact with him, letting out a sigh. 

“That girl would starve if it weren’t for Tumnus and me self,” he handed Caspian the receipt pointedly, making hard eye contact with him. “Too kind to others to care about herself. Even if it means she won’t eat a meal or two.”

It was with sudden, hot shame that it dawned on Caspian that Lucy had undercharged him. 

“Can I give her a tip?”

“You could try,” Trumpkin shrugged his shoulders, his ruddy nose twitching. “But she doesn’t take tips for scar cover-ups as a personal rule.”

Caspian frowned but quickly tried to rearrange his face into a neutral expression as Lucy came back up to the front. She stood in front of him, looking up into eyes. Her hair was falling back from the strain of looking up at him and Caspian, despite himself, had to try not to laugh. 

“I do hope we see each other again, Caspian,” Lucy’’s shoulders were open, her grin was bright, and her head was tilted adorably. And yet, there was a confidence and strength to her posture. “It was lovely talking to you.”

“About that,” Caspian leaned forward so that his face was mere inches from Lucy’s own. He felt a flush rise to his cheeks but he decided it was best to be forward. “I know you’re spoken for by your lovely faun tonight. But would you care to have dinner with me tomorrow, my queen?”

Lucy giggled. 

“Well, since you’ve asked so nicely, I guess I can grant you an audience.”

The warmth and effervescent joy between them couldn’t shatter that moment in Caspian’s mind. He finally felt his chest, his soul, begin to heal.


End file.
